Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  “Maybe,” he told himself, “when all this is over and done with, I’ll go see how they turned out.”

  After the meal, he planted himself across the road from the bordello next to a small corral. He sat in the dirt under one of only five trees in the town and waited. First he had to see if this was the right Quías. He knew his face from the argument they had outside the ratty Mexican jail where Jeff lay dying. Shortly after sundown a large man in the usual soiled police uniform strolled towards the whorehouse whistling a tune Billy didn’t recognize. It was him. It was the right Quías. Billy lowered his sombrero to appear as just another sleeping Mexican. He had forgotten what a brute of a fellow Quías was, or he was simply too angry during their past argument to even care. He decided it would be wise to wait until his prey left the whorehouse drunk and spent from hours of unloading baggage...Advantage...and more of the town would be asleep. Quías didn’t appear to be armed, not even the standard issue pistola. “Strange,” he thought, but another advantage. He settled against the corral fence post to wait. Soon a light breeze captured the pungent odor of the few cattle and horses in the corral and blew it up his nose. For an instant he thought he could even taste it. He spat.

  April, 1907

  “A ranch,” Jeff suggested, “maybe in northern New Mexico, where it still snows. I do miss snow. Didn’t think I would ‘cause I got so sick of it back home.”

  The two Rangers were stretched out on their bunks listening to a thunder storm. At least three times they had to shift their beds to keep them from being drenched by leaks in the rotting roof. Sparky was stretched out on his two mattresses on the floor, snoring away, mindless of the water pooling at his stocking feet. Freddie had taken the train up to Bisbee to see his daughter, and probably his “little dressmaker with the huge udders.” Usually on these down times Billy would spend some time with his wife and boys, but lately every time he came home Anna’s head seemed to be in faraway places.

  “We could pool our money,” continued Jeff. “Buy some land, get us a horny bull and a few heifers, and in no time we’d have ourselves a herd.

  “Ain’t that easy,” stated Billy. “I cut cattle fer years. They are stupid, smelly devils.” He lit his pipe.

  “Better than goats though, right?” Jeff stated with a grin.

  “Ridin’ herd on wild turkeys be better than goats,” answered Billy. “Sides, we got us work here. Why leave it?”

  “I’m not sayin’ we do it first thing in the mornin’, but sometime...in the future.”

  Outside, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

  “Cattle are jumpy as hell, too,” added Billy. “Night like this and they’d be stampedin’ fer Mexico.”

  “Yer such a pessimist, Mr. Old!”

  “A what?”

  “Pessimist! A fella who always thinks on the bad side of things!”

  “Ne’er said I wouldn’t do it,” Billy bristled.

  Another loud clap of thunder shook the barracks.

  “Well, it’s just a dream anyway,” said Jeff. “Every man needs a dream. You got one?”

  “Got what?”

  “A dream! What you’d like to do with your life!”

  “I thought I was doin’ it.”

  “No other ambitions?” asked Jeff.

  “Just keepin’ me and Orion fed and a warm place to sleep...maybe a ‘cas’nal whore.” It troubled him that he so quickly added those last four words seeing that he’d been hitched for more than two seasons, but deep down he knew it was true.

  “Come on, Billy, there’s gotta be more to life than food, fire, and fuckin’!” Jeff rose and crossed to the small stove, grabbed an old rag and opened the grill to toss in another small log.

  “Well, goddamn it then, what about you?” Billy blurted. “Shit, Jeff, ya coulda been just ‘bout anything ya wanted. Ya got brains, ya got schoolin’, but ya come down here to this shit-saken place to get yerself shot at by a bunch of pus-buckets. You confound me, Jeff Kidder!”

  Jeff chuckled then spat a wad of tobacco into the fire and listened for a moment as it sizzled and popped. As he closed the grill and returned to his bunk, a low roll of thunder covered the noise of the creaky floor boards beneath his feet. He sat back down on the bed, facing Billy.

  “My grandpa was in the U.S. House of Representatives,” Jeff stated. “For a spell he helped run this whole damn country, but it frustrated the hell out of him, gave him more white hairs than a snow fox. I asked him why he did it. Know what he said?”

  “What?” asked an attentive Billy.

  “‘Jeffie,’ don’t you laugh, that was what he called me ‘til his dying day!” ‘Jeffie, this world is always going to have bad people, and some of us are put here to try and stop their evil doin’s. This is the best way I know how to do that.’” Then Jeff tapped on his Ranger badge and said, “This is the best way I know how to do that, Billy. Hell, I’m not gonna do it forever, I know that!” He grinned and added, “Just ‘til I get famous.” His serious tone immediately returned. “But right now it needs to be done so I’ll do it. It’s necessary, and that makes me necessary—not just another asshole takin’ up space.”

  Billy’s head lingered on those words for a few seconds before he asked, “So, does that make me nes’sary, too?”

  “Absolutely,” answered Jeff as he lie back in his bunk. Following a few thunder claps he added, “It’s a good dream though, ain’t it? A ranch? A man with no dreams ain’t worth a horse apple.”

  Billy remembered it was one of the few times he heard his friend use the word “ain’t.” Twice!

  “Damn good dream, Jeff!” he answered as his friend began humming “Red River Valley.”

  Sparky raised his head in a sleepy daze and called out, “Ma, why’er my feet wet?” He curled up into a large fetal position and resumed his snoring.

  February, 1910

  It was a dark night in Pedro Conde. No moon. Billy looked up and saw Orion’s namesake. He pointed and said, “That there’s where ya’ll go when ya leave this earth, shithead, right up to them three stars. Maybe Cap’n’s on one of them already.”

  Orion snorted and stomped his hoof twice.

  Several hours passed before Quías finally stepped out into the night, but with a fly in the ointment. In one hand he carried a bottle of nearly spent tequila. With the other he was tugging along a young whore who didn’t appear to be in the mood for a moonlight stroll. Billy knew he couldn’t stay in this town too long without drawing attention to the fact that a gringo was here, regardless of his appearance. He had to make his move. Hoping the whore would appreciate her freedom from the beast he stepped out of the darkness.

  “Delores Quías!” he called.

  The big man stopped and turned towards the stranger. “¿Quién está pridiendo?” he replied.

  Billy removed the sombrero. “Remember me, amigo?”

  Quías squinted through tequila and no moon then said, “Ah, sí,” he answered, nodding his head and displaying a taunting grin, “The Ranger! Oh, I forget. No more Rangers, sí?” He laughed. “You look for job, Ranger?”

  Billy slipped free of his serape, took the .45 out of its shoulder holster, and placed it and his Smith & Wesson on the ground.

  “No!” he replied. “I’m lookin’ fer you, asshole.”

  A Dime Novel would say he put aside his weapons because Quías was unarmed and it wouldn’t have been a fair fight. Actually, he just didn’t want a gunshot rousing any other Mexican policemen that might still be inside the whorehouse. Not being totally ignorant of the bulk facing him and still wanting an advantage, he pulled the long knife from the back of his belt. All the moves the Comanche breed taught him flashed through his head. He positioned his feet for the ever important balance. He cleared his mind of everything except where he wanted to sink the blade. Then Quías released the whore’s arm and smashed his tequila bottle on a fence post, creating a nasty jagged weapon.

  Advantage gone!

  Through gritted yellow teeth, the p
oliceman hissed, “Come get me, hombre!”

  Finally, here it was, after all those years, a knife fight. Just as Billy was about to approach the hulking beast the whore flew out of the darkness and with both hands smashed a rock into the back of Quías’s head. The big fellow collapsed at Billy’s feet in a silent heap. For a moment he stood there stunned. Then the whore kicked the unconscious hombre in the ribs.

  “Puerco!” she spat at the hulk in the dirt. Then she looked at Billy and said, “¡Corton los cojones! Hienden ellos.” Muttering even more obscenities in Spanish she stomped off into the darkness.

  Whores usually liked Rangers. Mainly because they paid without question, didn’t knock them around, and were often in a hurry, but Billy was pretty certain this one just hated Quías. He thought about thanking her with a silver dollar but, then again, she did ruin his first chance at a knife fight. Rather, a knife and broken bottle fight.

  April, 1904

  “That’s it?” whispered Jeff. “One head?”

  “Did ya see how skinny them Injuns were?” remarked Billy.

  Two ranchers near the southern base of the Dragoon Mountains had complained about some Indians stealing their cattle. Since the places had been hit in succession, Jeff figured the Indians were stupid enough to hit the next one in line. The two sly Rangers hid out on a hill overlooking a herd of about two hundred smelly head. Side-by-side, prone in the high grass, they waited. Sure enough, an hour after sundown, four Indians slipped out of the heavy brush, two braves and two squaws toting papooses. They quietly cut one head from the herd and led the animal off into the bushes.

  “Told ya they were dumb enough to hit the next one,” grinned Jeff. “Let’s go get them!”

  “What?” exclaimed Billy. “We gonna chase four starvin’ Injuns over one ol’ moss back?”

  “They’re stealing, Billy! It’s our job.”

  “Bullshit! It’s only ‘cause ther Injuns! One fuckin’ cow? Go if ya wanna, I ain’t!”

  “Goddamn it, Billy, it’s our job!”

  “Chasin’ rustlers is our job, not starvin’ Injuns.” He clamped his pipe stem into his mouth and defiantly crossed his arms. “I ain’t doin’ it!”

  Jeff stared at his friend for a long moment then chuckled. “You remind me of my little brother, crossin’ your arms like that! ‘I ain’t doin’ it!’” he mocked. Settling back down in the grass he plucked a stem and chewed on it. After a few moments he said, “You’re right. One ol’ moss back isn’t worth getting’ our dander up with each other. Guess those Injuns have to eat, too.” Then he grinned and asked, “But how am I ever gonna get famous if we keep doin’ shit like this?”

  “Hell, in just a year ya brung in seven rustlers and four beaner policemen gunrunners. Ya keep pissin’ off them crooked Mexican policia and they’ll make ya famous alright...as maggot meat.”

  “Can’t just leave them to their dirty deeds, Billy?”

  “Then stop givin’ out yer name ev’ry time ya shackle them. Yer just lettin’ their friends know who to hunt down.”

  Neither spoke for several minutes. They simply watched the Indians lead the one cow over a small rise and disappear into the night.

  Finally Billy asked, “Wanna pickle our livers?”

  “Why the hell not? It stinks out here.”

  The two rose from their prone positions and crossed to their mounts.

  “What if we had a horse ranch ‘stead of cattle?” asked Billy. “Wouldn’t wake up ev’ry morn to that god awful stench.”

  “Wouldn’t make as much money either. People need to eat and the automobile’s gonna replace the horse anyways.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen. Horses don’t need roads.”

  “How many times I gotta tell ya, Billy, steel’s our God now and automobiles are made of steel. Either of these two critters we’re perched on made of steel?”

  “Well, then maybe we oughta get a steel ranch,” suggested Billy.

  The men’s laughter was followed by a short silence as they slowly rode towards the nearest town.

  “What ‘bout a honey bee farm?” Billy finally suggested.

  With a baffled look, Jeff asked, “Ya serious?”

  “My pa had a couple of hives,” explained Billy. “He’d put the honey in mason jars and sell it in town. Made a nice penny. We could invent dif’rent things made with honey. Ya know how folks like honey on their biscuits? We could invent a biscuit with honey already in it. Might be lotsa things that honey could be put inside of instead of folks buyin’ it in a jar and puttin’ it on them things...like...like griddle cakes and bread and...and...we could call it “Old Kidder Honey”

  “Why not Kidder Old Honey?” asked Jeff, amused at his friend’s excitement.

  “Cause Old Kidder makes it sound like there’s this old fella named Kidder with a secret concoction fer makin’ things with honey.”

  Jeff looked at Billy and said, “You been ponderin’ on this fer a spell, haven’t ya?”

  “Course, we might git stunged a bunch,” added Billy.

  “That’s a reckon!”

  “Ya think a honey bee knows that if it stings ya it’s gonna die?” Billy asked.

  “I doubt it. They’re just bugs.”

  “Too bad that can’t happen to people,” stated Billy.

  “What’d ya mean?”

  “If a fella killsa ‘nother fella, ‘cept in self-defense or somethun, then he’d just drop over dead, too, right then and there, just like a honey bee that done stung someone. Make our job a lot easier.”

  “But boring,” stated Jeff as he released a stream of juice through a tobacco-stained grin. “Can’t get famous doin’ borin’ things.”

  A half hour later they were trotting into the small town of Pearce, Arizona. As they had promised themselves, the Rangers ended up in the local saloon. After several more than too many drinks, they figured it could a good night to unload some baggage.

  “Where’s the whor’house?” Billy drunkenly slurred at the bartender.

  “Last buildin’ south on the left,” the man replied.

  Billy thanked him and flipped him two bits.

  With a wink the bartender added, “Have fun!”

  The two soused friends staggered up to the front of the place indicated, threw open the door, boldly stepped in, and shouted in unison, “Who wants to fuck a Ranger?”

  It took only a drunken instant to realize they had been duped. Four shirtless Apache bucks sky high on mescal beans jumped up with knives in their hands and a killing gleam in their eyes. Leaping between Jeff and Billy and the four braves, an Indian whore began hustling the two Rangers back out the door.

  “You, you, Rangers!” she yelled, “You go! No trouble here! You go!” She pushed Jeff and Billy out the door into the night air. “GO!” She turned quickly to calm the braves and slam the door behind her. It’s damn certain she didn’t do this because she liked Rangers. Most fancy whorehouses wouldn’t let an Indian set foot in them—of course, pretty squaws were a different story. But in a few towns, especially ones near a reservation, a squaw with some gumption would sometimes set up her own house.

  For a moment the two men stood there shaking. Just split seconds apart both sank to a seated position. Luckily it was after midnight and the street was empty of wagons and livestock. Horrific images of what could’ve befallen them flashed through their heads. Finally Billy stood up and adjusted his gun belt.

  “Whatcha doin’?” slurred Jeff, still seated in the dusty street.

  “I’m goin’ back to that saloon and shoot that bartender in both his knee caps,” slurred Billy.

  “Good thinkin’, slurred Jeff.

  As soon as those two words had entered his ears Billy passed out flat on his face. All he got that night was a broken nose.

  February, 1910

  The sun and Quías opened their eyes at almost the same time. For awhile Billy was worried he wouldn’t. Having the hombre put under by a whore with a rock didn’t fit his plan. Even with a hell o
f a headache it took the policeman only seconds to realize he was in deep shit. His wrists were tightly bound to his belt buckle. He was far from town, flat on his back with his legs in the air and his feet strapped to the inside stirrups of two jittery horses. Standing in front of the two restless animals holding both sets of reins in just one hand and a fancy pipe in the other was the ex-Ranger.

  “Spit quick or die, Quías,” Billy calmly stated between two puffs.

  Not wanting to struggle and frighten the horses, Quías wisely became very cooperative.

  “Sí, sí, Señor Ranger, por favor, what...what you want to know? I tell you anything, anything, just please, no let go reins, Ranger, por favor.”

  Leading the two horses in a slow, deliberate circle, leisurely bouncing the back of Quías’head off the rough terrain, Billy said, “You and Amador were inside that cantina back in Naco when Ranger Kidder came in. Moises Alvarez, Diaz Pasco, and a Victoriano were outside. I wanna know the whereabouts a them last three hombres!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Quías was spilling his guts.

  “Moises is in La Bandera,” he said, almost sobbing. “I know not where Pasco is...” Billy lightly jerked the reins causing the horses to slightly pitch and shuffle. Panic shot across Quías’s face. “No, no, Señor, I beg you. Por favor! I know not where Pasco is. He no amigo of mine, Señor, no amigo!”

  “Victoriano then,” said Billy. “Where can I find him?”

  Seeming surprised by the question, Diaz replied, “Uh, in his office I guess, Señor, in...”

  His words were cut short by the hissing of an angry rattlesnake that had silently slithered into the area. The horses bucked and leapt, jerking the reins from Billy’s hand. They shot off into the morn with Quías screaming for mercy. All Billy could do was stand and watch the man being skinned across the rocky Sonora ground. He really didn’t plan on the hombre dying that way—like a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey—but he hasn’t had much luck with plans lately. Feigning innocence the rattler continued on its journey into the bush.